


Noteworthy

by HarveyDangerfield, Venn



Series: Fiddle/Ford [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: First Time, Gray-Asexuality, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/HarveyDangerfield, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venn/pseuds/Venn
Summary: Ford finds his roommate Fiddleford shamefully masturbating to Ford's school notes of all things, and takes matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: Fiddle/Ford [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682002
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Noteworthy

**Author's Note:**

> this series is gonna mention a lot of past Stan/Ford, if that ain't your thing then ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Touch was always a very serious issue for Fiddleford McGucket, and college a very scary time to have such an issue. Students were typically not very well known for their tact after all, and even less so for being forgiving when others asked patience of them, but Fiddleford was lucky. Fiddleford had Stanford Pines as a roommate.

Limitlessly intelligent, exuberantly excitable and patient beyond all measure, Stanford was probably the best match the college could have made for the two boys fresh onto the college scene. Fiddleford had been scared of the possible and inevitable ridicule he would have to endure, but Stanford made sure that was never an issue. It only took one word of warning for Stanford to respect his touchless wishes. 

It was.... nice, having a friend, if not more than a bit distracting. Fiddleford, after all, had never wanted to be touched before, not by anyone, not by anything for any reason. It only took about a month for Fiddleford to realize that Ford was very much an exception to that rule.

Mostly it leads to distractions in conversations, but occasionally it will effect his work. Full assignments left until the last moment in lieu of talking to Stanford and spending hours poring over theoretical tomes and ideas. It was these tomes and ideas that drew Fiddleford to Stanford, and it was those tomes that he found himself standing over currently, distracted and in awe of the neat lettering dotting the page.

Fiddleford licks his lips as he stares down at the neat notes on Ford's desk, fingers tracing the pages as warmth floods his throat. His hand raises to his chest, thumb smoothing over the firm line of his collarbone-- his fatal mistake. One touch sets his gut burning and his breath short, and as he leans forward off of the chair to stand to his feet over the desk, he's stricken now by just what he's seeing and reacting to. Ford's _notes_.

It's a new low for him, even as he feels the heel of his palm digging into the crotch of his corduroy bellbottoms. And yet, grinding his palm against himself and leaning over his desk on one hand, he absolutely does not stop. Looking back on it, if he knew Ford was about to come through the door to their shared room, he still wouldn't stop.

Ford's respect for Fiddleford is mutual. While he'd come to the school full of disdain for the environment he had no choice but to endure, and he'd fully expected to just grit his teeth and bear it through the entirety of his stay at the infinitely insulting _Backupsmore_ , he found joy in his time with Fiddleford. He never would have expected to find someone he considered an intellectual equal in a place like this, much less in his own room. 

He'd specifically requested to have a single room if possible, despite filling out the roommate questionnaire as bidden by administration, but of course they hadn't given him one. He'd fully expected to butt heads with his roommate, but he'd gotten along with Fiddleford from day one. Even after he'd gotten too excited and clapped the other man on the back of the neck and Fiddleford had made it very clear that he didn't like to be touched. Ford could respect that too-- he didn't like to be touched by strangers, either. Really, he should have known better, but he'd never had someone like Fiddleford to volley ideas with before, and he'd just gotten carried away. 

Ford had never developed strong feelings for anyone except Stanley in his relatively short lifetime. Recently turned nineteen, he knows it's foolish to expect he would meet the love of his life any time soon, and that subject has always been a contentious one as it is because of his unconventional relationship with his brother, and his own tenuous relationship with the concept of sex in general. It isn't that he's ever disliked it, but his ability to go long stretches of time without even _thinking_ about it can't be normal. 

Which is why it slaps him in the face all over again when he quietly opens the door to their room, and he finds Fiddleford leaned out over _his_ desk, touching himself through his pants. Really it would be easy to just back out the way he came, they'd WD40'd the hinges last week to stop them from screeching and groaning, and Fiddleford obviously hadn't heard him enter because he didn't stop or even slow down. But he finds himself rooted to the spot, his hand on the door knob, his other hand gripping the strap of his messenger bag looped across his chest. 

He goes through several stages of rationalization just then. First, that the sight of Fiddleford didn't repulse him. He'd always partially suspected that his interest in Stan was a matter of proximity and convenience rather than necessarily actual _attraction_. Stan was there with him from day one, he trusted him implicitly (or used to, anyway) and he knew it would be safe to experiment with him. But seeing Fiddleford, his undeniably male roommate, touching himself in plain sight doesn't repulse him in the slightest. 

In fact, it intrigues him. Significantly so. He'd never considered Fiddleford's attractiveness (something he finds as a general rule for all people) but he very quickly categorizes Fiddleford as attractive, now that the switch has flipped. He's small, a lot smaller than Ford, and he finds that charming. Ford had spent so much of his life as the small one, and only recently shot up in height at about seventeen to match and even exceed his brother, who had always been the big one. To be not only the tall one for once, but also the bigger one, both broader and stronger than Fiddleford, is exciting. And furthermore, the ratio of his slim chest, waist and hips is mathematically pleasant to the eye, and the slope of his thighs make for a pleasurable tangent to follow south. 

Not only is he physically pleasant to look at, but Ford finds that he trusts Fiddleford. Maybe not to the same degree as he once trusted Stan, but their relationship wasn't exactly normal, and as an outlier it shouldn't be used in data gathering. He trusts Fiddleford as much as he thinks he could possibly trust any person. He admires him, and is inspired by him. And when he puts all the pieces together in his brain, he realizes very quickly, all at once, that the feelings he's been building up over the course of the last year for Fiddleford have indeed been romantic interest (go figure it would take him literally finding Fiddleford touching himself to realize it) And judging by the way Fiddleford is moaning over Ford's desk staring at his notes, the feeling is mutual. 

So he closes the door, loudly, to announce his presence. 

Usually the jumpy type, maybe it's a surprise when Fiddleford doesn't jump at the sudden, loud noise. His body goes stiff, of course-- even though 'stiff' seemed to be precisely the issue right now-- and the burning in his stomach turns nearly acidic. But as he hears the telltale slam of the door and the metallic click of the lock behind his roommate, he doesn't turn to look at him.

Short brown hair exposes the brilliant red flush of his neck, his cheeks-- every part that Stanford could see of his head (Which was not actually all that much) was a brilliant pink, only flooding more and more until it even extends in ruddy patches over his exposed skin. His voice as he speaks is almost calm, if there wasn't just the smallest, wobbliest note of fear, "I'd appreciate not hittin' me too hard," Fiddleford says, sounding already resigned to this fate, "But if that's what you gotta do, I s'pose I understand."

Intentionally slowly, Fiddleford moves his hand from his crotch-- the line pronounced, his cock downright straining against the zipper of his cordurouys-- to the desk, both hands on the wood grain as if demonstrating he wasn't touching himself anymore. As if he could even think about that right now. Instead he ducks his head, winces, and braces for an impact from his roommate.

He feels an impact alright, but it isn't the one he's expecting. He anticipates yelling at the least, outright beating at the worst. Being told to reassign himself to a new room as the very best case scenrio, and at the very worst, being put in the hospital. Ford is a relatively large man, even if he didn't really mean to hurt Fiddleford all that much, the tennessee native is like a toddler in a tiara: precious and short. 

But instead, he feels a sudden warmth at his back, and his eyes spring open as he feels instead, the weight of Ford standing directly behind him, so close that his chest is brushing Fiddleford's upper back. He feels his warm breath fan over the back of his neck and ear, smelling like coffee and altoids, and a second later he sees Ford's six-fingered hands join his on the desk. Bent down over him, his fingers spread on the desktop on either side of Fiddleford's much smaller hands. 

"Were you looking at my notes?" he asks, despite already knowing the answer. 

Fiddleford has to wonder if Ford could hear his heartbeat from behind him. If, like a panther or jaguar, he's decided to play with him before getting mad. Perhaps he wants to know just what it was that made him act so lewd, out of curiosity or malice it was hard to say. It didn't seem like Ford to torment, but this was uncharted territory. Who was to say how someone was to react to... finding someone masturbating over their notes?

"I was," He admits, still staring forward. Warmth emanates off of Ford like and oven and Fiddleford has to take a second to realize that he couldn't bask in it like he desperately wanted to. The hand by his was a tease, the breath ghosting over his neck made his skin raise in goosebumps-- Fiddleford continues staring down at the notes, but now he's distracted by that massive hand by his, and the attached, bulky arm. His were nothing in comparison. He was a twig amongst logs.

Straightening his back just the slightest, Fiddleford realizes his mistake too late, warmth flooding to his stomach as he felt his shoulders graze against his chest, and his fingers tightly twitch into fists, "Nothin' in particular, like. Good work as usual, Stanford," His words are casual, but he sounds like he's being strangled, his voice tight and nervous.

"Nothing in particular," Ford huffs a soft, genuinely amused laugh. Hearing Fiddleford try to justify touching himself while looking at his handiwork is honestly charming. Maybe it's the fact that he hasn't even considered touching himself going on ten months now, but just being able to _smell_ the arousal pouring off of Fiddleford in waves makes his entire body thrum with interest. Whatever shred of doubt there was that the source of his roommate's arousal hadn't been directed at Ford and his proximity to his work had been simple coincidence is eradicated, now that he's standing as close to Fiddles as he is. 

He glances down at the tremble in Fiddleford's clenched hands, the sweat beading on his brow, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He looks terrified, but even that isn't enough to completely cut through the hormones. Normally Ford wouldn't be quite so bold, but maybe Stan had been a bad influence on him. Or a good influence? Or maybe it had nothing to do with Stan, and Ford being on his own for the first time has finally given him some goddamn confidence. Whatever the reason is, the possibility of Fiddleford rejecting him here doesn't even cross his mind, nor do the consequences of it if the other man were to. 

Instead, he turns his head to just ghost his lips over the side of Fiddleford's neck, right behind his ear. He says nothing, he just curls one hand up off the desk and flattens it over the smaller man's skinny belly, tugging him gently so Fiddleford's back goes flush with his stomach. "Is this why you asked me not to touch you?" he asks finally, just holding the other man against him. "Because you were interested?"

Fiddleford feels like static has filled his muscles instead of the bone and sinew they're supposed to be comprised of. He feels weak all over, too warm and too electrified all at once. He takes one step back, moving with the gentle, broad pressure of Stanford's palm on his belly, as he leans back into his chest, the sudden plane of warmth almost too much for him to even bear. Proximity and heat and the graze of Ford's lips at his neck make Fiddleford go absolutely stock-still except for the shallow little pant of breath making his chest raise and fall. 

"No, I--" The implication that he lied makes his entire body turn to ice, and he continues staring straight ahead as if he was courting some mythic beast, like any sudden movements would end in mutual destruction, "I genuinely don't normally take to folks touchin' me, I ain't usually one that-- ah, appreciates it," He swallows heavily, his words feeling heavy on his tongue and down his throat as he swallows past a growing knot. 

He feels the slow drain of adrenaline as the little hairs across the back of his neck stand on end, goosebumps raising down his arms as Ford's breath ghosts across the shell of his ear. For a second he's worried his knees might give out. They don't, thank god, and as he struggles to find a way to tell Ford that he doesn't mind, he fails to come up with something that doesn't sound as desperate as he absolutely feels, so instead he says nothing at all, licking his lips and finally allowing his hips to follow his back, settling back against the distracting warmth of Ford's body.

The unflattering thought crosses Ford's mind that this is a result of hormones, that because it's been "so long" for him, he's just reacting in the organic way a red-blooded human man reacts to sensual stimulation-- but logically he knows that isn't true. He hasn't thought about sex once in going on a year now, not until it was brought back up to his attention. And if he hadn't trusted Fiddleford the way he does, he wouldn't be here with him now, hugging a strong arm around his waist and pinning his hips forward against the desk.

"I can understand that," he says finally, licking his lips. His mouth is close enough to Fiddleford's ear that he can feel the very tip of his tongue ghost the shell, as Ford's other hand loops around in front of him and undoes the button and zipper at the front of his pants, tugging it down and out of the way. He doesn't go any farther than that, relishing the it makes him feel to have Fiddleford leaning his weight back against him. "I don't usually like being touched, either."

Fiddleford's back goes ruler-straight as that tongue flicks against his ear, his shoulders going tense and his breath leaving him as effectively as a punch to his solar plexus, "Oh," He manages, a blatant attempt at a casual tone muddied by the breathless way he says it. He couldn't even imagine himself right now, pinned to his roommate's desk by a strong pair of arms-- and the hand on his fly does absolutely nothing for his imagination but set his nerves on fire, and he gulps another quick breath, little pink tongue darting to wet his suddenly-dry lips. 

"I don't-- usually get along with someone enough to even consider it," He admits. Were they having this conversation? It certainly felt surreal. All of it felt surreal, Fiddleford's brain somewhere stuck between completely disassociating and absolute hyperdrive. "You're-- uh, comfortable touching, though?" It's a desperate attempt to keep the conversation going, to keep himself from saying something stupid, from doing something stupid, like rocking his hips back into that warmth or grinding into the desk out of sheer, hypersensitive want.

"I don't usually get along with someone enough to even consider it," Ford echoes Fiddleford exactly, turning his face to nuzzle his nose against the side of the other man's neck as he slowly and slyly untucks his shirt, unbuttoning it as he goes from the bottom up. "I've only ever had one other lover before... another boy. I'm familiar with where all the parts go-- are you?"

Fiddles' breath goes in one massive pant, an audible declaration of just how he's feeling about the current events. His hands are still planted on the table, though barely, just the tips, like it's taking everything for him to keep himself rooted. "Theoretically," Fiddleford admits with a breathless little titter of breath-- like a huff of a laugh that didn't quite make it out all the way, "I'm not... experienced in a practical sense, though, no, but I-- know," His ears are burning again. Of course they are.

"Good to know," Ford murmurs, and he finally opens Fiddleford's fly properly, tugging his pants down in front of him, giving his briefs the same treatment until the other man's cock is on full display, arching off his body like a tent pole. He reaches forward to pump a bit of the hand lotion into his palm that he uses to keep his fingers from chafing from the amount of handwriting he does, and then boldly wraps his hand around Fiddleford's cock, stroking him slowly with only the confidence that someone with experience can have. "I'm flattered, by the way."

"Ah--" The noise is ripped from Fiddleford's throat without him meaning for it to be heard at all, and his shoulders sink back against Ford's chest as he's stroked with one massive, smooth hand. He looks down the line of his chest at himself, his cockhead bright red and swollen, Ford's hand capable and confident. Jaw slack, he can't help but watch in awe, still partially convinced this was some sort of dream, cheeks flush and eyes laser-focused on where they join, "Stanford, you really-- ah..." He seems to forget what he's saying somewhere between the first and second stroke, fingers gripping tightly at the wooden desktop.

"You too," Ford murmurs against the side of his neck, watching over Fiddleford's shoulder at the sight of his own hand tugging slowly along the other man's cock. His own body is responding to the stimuli, his slacks tenting out against Fiddleford's ass in a hard line that he ignores completely in favor of pulling Fiddleford's soul out of his body through his cock. "I never would have expected this from you, Fiddleford. You've always seemed so traditional. Traditionally intelligent, traditionally well dressed, traditionally outgoing-- but I should have guessed. The way your mind works is far from ordinary. You're an exceptional man, Fiddleford." 

As he pours words down the side of his roommate's neck, he slides his other hand up Fiddles' now-bare chest, his shirt hanging open around his shoulders like a pair of wings. His thumb finds and paws at a nipple in time with his other thumb's exploration of Fiddleford's cockhead, watching the way he shivers and trembles with rapt attention. He was never able to take control with Stanley, Stan was always too self-conscious to be soft like this. 

The sway of Stanford's arm occasionally grinds Fiddleford's ass against his cock, and it's those occasional swipes that have him dizzy with pleasure. "I don't-- I don't know if this-- this counts for me bein' exceptional," He admits breathlessly, sounding like it took every last ounce of energy he had to come up with even that retort. 

The fingers at his chest make the smaller man gasp, shoulders twitching and going slack. It's not much, but the entirety of his weight leans back against Ford in that instance as he seems unable to keep himself upright, knees going weak. Under the caress of Ford's fingers, Fiddleford's nipples pebble and tighten, another round of goosebumps raising the little hairs across his arms and the back of his neck, where Ford's breath continues to torment and astound. He's still looking down at himself as his cock jumps in Ford's and weeps, precum smearing across his fingers and joining the lotion in making downright lewd, wet sounds that fill the snug dorm room. 

A low, staggered breath leaves him as his body shudders against Ford's chest, "Stanford, I'm-- I'm really--"

"Really what?" Ford asks, calling on every ounce of his memory of Stan's dirty talk in order to keep this particular ball rolling. He might take the time to feel guilty later about the fact that he's thinking so much about a past lover while initiating with a new one-- but maybe it's normal, to draw upon past experience. "Really about to cum on my notes? I'll have to rewrite them."

It barely seems to register, Fiddleford's eyebrows knitting together as he gulps for air and scrambles at the desk, "I--" He seems to make a halfhearted, half-brained attempt to actually gather the papers together, clumsy fingers able to put them together, at least, until a particularly perfect swipe of Ford's thumb leaves him breathless and slack again, " _Shit_ , Stanford," He finally manages, quite possibly the first curse word Ford had ever heard leave Fiddleford's mouth.

"Oh, are we cussing now?" Ford can't help but tease, and his free hand slides up Fiddleford's chest to curl loosely at the base of his throat, right across his collarbone, just to encourage him to stand up straight as he feels the smaller man's body going limp with pleasure-- and the hand on his cock speeds up. "I thought you were a good, clean kind of fella. Then again you've been fantasizing over my notes for how long now? How long have you been thinking about me doing this?" 

How long could he have actually been _doing_ this to Fiddleford, is the real question. It's like lightning struck his brain all at once, now he can't even imagine what his life might have looked like going forward if he couldn't pin Fiddleford to the desk and fist his cock until he passes out. With his general lack of interest in sex with strangers, or even with accquaintances, he supposes that really _means_ something about how he feels about Fiddleford... but he'll have time to unpack that later. 

The hand on his throat is like lava poured across Fiddleford's skin. He burns everywhere Ford touches him, every nerve lights on fire as he swallows and his adam's apple bobs against his palm. He doesn't have the brain power to argue against Ford's teasing, not a single cell to spare for replying to those accusatory questions. How long had he been fantasizing about Ford's notes? How long had he been thinking about him doing this? Was he even doing it now? Was this a prolonged hallucination? Fiddleford's chest raises and falls quickly as he struggles to catch his breath, and he fails.

"I cain't--" That twang of a Southern accent had been a battle the entire time, and it seemed to be one he'd given up fighting for now, as his hips jerk subconsciously into his palm, nails digging into wood, "Stanford, I'm--" And that was it, that was all. 

Fiddleford comes in a heavy stream across Ford's notes, tacky and thick and absolutely a mess, standing on his tip-toes and arching into the taller man's palm while the rest of him goes completely stiff, jaw slack, head sagging back against his shoulder.

Ford just watches with a warmth in his chest as Fiddleford goes brainless in his arms, leaning his full weight on him, trusting him to support him. It makes him feel strong in more than one way to know that Fiddleford trusts him to do _any_ of this to him. And it makes him feel tingly to be able to witness Fiddleford completely letting go for once. No concern, no worry, no stress, no overworking himself. He just let himself feel good for once-- and he let _Ford_ make him feel good. 

He gets it now, how Stanley would talk about "his side" of the relationship feeling as good as Ford's side. Ford had always thought some part of it must have been selfish, and he assumed it was the part where Stanley also got to get off... but he's starting to get now how it might be something a little deeper than that. Something a little more meaningful. 

"That was good," Ford praises him softly, releasing his cock and letting it rest heavily on the desktop, weeping slightly while Ford wraps that hand around Fiddleford's waist, hugging him back against his body with both arms. 

It takes a minute for Fiddleford to come back down, his entire soul absolutely astral projected from his body with one simple handjob. Stanford is supporting him from behind, thank God, because otherwise he'd be flat against the desk and covered in his own cum. As it was, it was cooling into tacky pools across Ford's desk, untouched, as Fiddleford stares down at himself in something akin to awe. Awe that it had happened, awe that he'd _allowed_ it to happen. 

"Sure, uh-- sure was," He finally manages after about a minute of Fiddleford carefully picking his brain off the ground and putting it back between his ears, during which Ford had remained a stalwart, warm presence at his back. A good thing, considering the sudden chill that came over his sweat-slick chest made more goosebumps raise across his skin and his cock twitch. Another silence drifts between them, Fiddleford having yet to look at Ford, "That-- was real good," He finally manages, with a breathless, weak little laugh.

"Do you want it to happen again sometime?" Ford asks, still holding Fiddleford up against his chest, still ignoring his own erection. He doesn't want to take his hands off of Fiddles for a moment, not even long enough to readjust. "Or should we move forward pretending like this didn't happen?"

"Do you want to?" Fiddleford almost sounds alarmed at that, though his voice is too lazy and sated to be really alarmed. He would be able to work up the energy for proper indignation later, when he remembered how to breathe, "I reckon it'd be, ah, alright, to happen again. I had fun, but you, uh--" His fingers twitch on the desk, an obvious impulse to touch making them come alive, barely stifled, "Did you?"

"I did," Ford says, without hesitation. "I liked being able to touch you. I liked making you feel good for a moment. It made _me_ feel good. It made me feel responsible for you. I'd like to do it again, if you would."

Fiddleford can't help the breathless little laugh that leaves him at that, nodding stupidly against Ford's chest, "I think I'd be some sorta outta my brain to say no," He admits, shuffling and tugging at Ford's arms to try and turn around, clearing his throat-- "But you ain't, uh-- want me to--?"

"Not right now," Ford says, clearly unwilling to let go of Fiddleford or even relent enough to let him turn around. He winds his arms tighter around him, tight enough to feel like if Fiddles picked his feet up off the ground, he wouldn't sink an inch. Ford buries his face in his shoulder and just relishes how _small_ the other man feels against him.

He feels stupid, looking back on this past year. Stupid for not realizing that his feelings for Fiddleford had grown roots as deep as they have. The sexuality had been the final piece of the puzzle for the whole picture to make sense in his brain, and now that it does, he feels like he's gotten something back that he didn't even realize he was missing. He doesn't want to think that Fiddleford is just a replacement for Stanley, because his relationship with Fiddles has been so wildly different than his relationship with Stanley had been, even before they started having sex. He views Stanley through rose-tinted glasses much of the time, as a committed protector and well-meaning buffoon, whereas Fiddleford feels very much like his academic and intelligent equal-- a relationship the likes of which Ford has never had before, and doubts he could ever have again at this same capacity. He craves Fiddleford's presence during crises of intellect, and thinks of him first whenever he has an opportunity to share. And it took him until now to realize it. A year without intimacy can make a brain go a little bit wild. 

He can't say any of that. Not yet, at least. Instead he just murmurs, "For now I just want to hold you."

How long had it been? Five minutes? Three? Ten? How quickly an entire life trajectory can change. Ford's warmth consuming his spine, Fiddleford doesn't fight once those arms clamp down around him and still his movement. He didn't want to be touched? He didn't have to touch him-- and was he about to complain? Hell fucking no he wasn't going to complain. Ford's stubble occasionally scratched against his neck, bringing goosebumps with it, and he's happy to offer comfort in whatever way was best for Ford. 

So he relaxes, his shoulders sinking, and allows himself a little reckless smile, raising a shaking, weak hand to slip across Ford's arm, fingers trailing gently up the skin. Maybe there was something else at play, but Fiddleford couldn't earnestly care-- if it was holding Ford wanted, by all means, he was free to be held.   


**Author's Note:**

> more to come in the future ✌️


End file.
